


Kids See Ghosts

by sleepsick



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coercion, Dubcon Kissing, First Kiss, M/M, Oral Sex, sad peter is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 03:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17174618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepsick/pseuds/sleepsick
Summary: Miles has seen an adult this drunk, like, twice.(Or: Peter B. Parker really, really fucks up)





	Kids See Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> As soon as I saw Spiderverse my mind was concocting an AU where the portal closed and Peter has been left behind in Miles' world to die. He's such a sadsack and Miles is just such a bright light, I needed it. 
> 
> Obviously, goes without saying that Peter's behavior in this fic is awful and shouldn't be condoned in real life.
> 
> Not beta read. Title taken from the Kanye song of the same title.

Miles has seen an adult this drunk, like, twice.

 

The first time was one of the regular bums that hung out in front of the bodega near the local bus stop, an old dude that wore a puffer jacket year round with a brown paper bag cradled in the crook of his arm more often than not. The other was his uncle when he was little, everyone crowded together at a wedding reception, or a birthday party, or just a barbecue at someone’s suburban split-level with a yard; the memory’s yawned fuzzy, since. Just something about Aaron being too big and too loud, staggering around so he looked silly to Miles, who ran to cling at his legs. Not as silly to Dad, who swooped in to grab his son up quick, Miles having just cottoned on to the lack of lucidity in Uncle Aaron’s gaze. The crunch of the red plastic Solo cup in his fist.

 

Miles talks a big talk, as is expected, has kicked it around a few fizzled parties thrown by kids his own age, but seeing a grown man well and truly _hammered?_ That’s different shit.

 

So when he slips into Peter B. Parker’s makeshift apartment at the tail end of the school week, backpack full of forgotten homework and heart full of excitement for their weekly pizza-and-Fortnite-night (Miles came up with the name, which Peter calls ‘cute but real redundant’), to find— _this_ \-- he doesn’t really know what the fuck to do.

 

His mentor’s got one foot hooked over the back of the couch, which is kind of impressive.

 

“Peter?”

 

Something smells funky. Like sweat, and something stronger. He drops his backpack onto the floorboards with a thud. The place is a dump, but the alley facing window always slides up smooth as silk, never locked, little furrowed lip at the bottom of the frame letting it open silently from the outside; Miles kind of wonders if that’s a Spider-Person prerequisite. Easy access, even on the fifteenth floor: a common denominator in all universes.

 

“Miles?” Peter calls back, hard-slurred press on the ‘M.’ His mouth sounds half mushed into a couch cushion, or something.

 

Miles kicks his way through a white flock of week old take-out boxes on his path around the only real piece of furniture in the place, trying not to step in anything truly gross. Everything’s slouched from bad to worse under the influence of Peter’s depressed presence. It’s been two months since Kingpin, since the portals closed for good, and someone in local gov had found this hole in the wall as ‘temp housing,’ for the one Peter Parker-shaped piece that had been left behind. Temp housing until— until unknown. Something neither of them really wants to think about. Just burning time until that guy with no family, no friends, who’s got kind of a belly and is just generally too atomically unstable for hero business, simply falls to pieces.

 

Nobody’s really checked up to see how he’s doing, besides Miles. Peter says he has a stipend, but refuses to say how much. Miles has tried to help supplement it with smuggled Tupperware of his mom’s home cooking.

 

 

He finally rounds the couch. The TV’s on, but the sound’s dimmed low, switched to infomercial. Their Xbox controllers are nowhere to be found, usually already out and waiting, another warning sign of something fucky.

 

He sees Peter and takes a step back, nearly tripping over a piece of trash in the process. “Woah, man, you look—“

 

“Like shit?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He really does, and in a different way than usual, simultaneously collapsed inward and sprawled out across half of the couch and a little bit of the makeshift coffee table. A puppet with its strings snipped, eyes blissfully closed, mouth open. Miles is pretty sure he’s still wearing the same stretched-out wife beater that he was when he last visited a few days ago, as identified by the stains. There are at least three brown, narrow-necked bottles sitting empty on the table and the rest of the six pack is probably rolling around under the couch somewhere.

 

“Your sweet talkin’ won’t work on me, Mister Morales.”

 

Peter cracks open one eye to regard Miles lazily.

 

“Take a seat.”

 

“Can’t.” Miles gestures. “You’re in the way.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Peter graciously folds up the leg not thrown over the back of the couch, dirty crew sock rasping on the upholstery.

 

Miles sits heavily, immediately turning to pretend to watch the ad for—some kind of miracle hair curling thing, feeling Peter’s gaze prickle on his profile.

 

“Sooo,” he says, letting the word hang. “Are we like, gonna play?”

 

Peter just gives a slushy laugh, arm flopping down to the side, groping around, coming back with another bottle. Miles has seen him ride roughshod through some real lows over the past few weeks, the phases of grief they talked about in Psych all jumbled out of order, rage butted up against sadness butted up against placid acceptance. This heavy drinking is some bastard child of the depression and the denial, and, honestly, he’s worse than Miles has ever seen him. It’s all weird, air humming thick, oversaturated with static-flicker blue; something about seeing his mentor so loose like this, so _sloppy_ , is both unnerving and. Uh.

 

The words _weirdly hot_ hang back behind his brain, fine print, a whisper.

 

“Okay then…. Guess not,” he murmurs. Peter doesn’t seem to even hear him, starting to stretch back out again, limbs going lax, toes squeezing between the couch and Mile’s butt in a way that seems accidental. Miles, who would normally tell him exactly where to shove his nasty-ass feet, lets it happen.

 

“That’s empty, you know?” He says, watching Peter try and take a swig from the bottle, stubbled neck working around nothing.

 

 

Peter just runs his tongue around the lip, like he’s swiping up invisible last drops of beer quivering at the glass and they’re delicious.

 

They shoot the shit, only slightly clunkier than normal, Miles doing most of the talking and Peter doing a lot of the just sitting there and sort of listening. What Miles did this week—How’s school going, how’s crime, always humming along in the veins of the city as shit carries on beneath them both. Miles finds himself relaxing, sorta. He sags into the couch, conversation eventually tapering into a finely-honed point of comfortable silence. Somebody is about to have their life changed by a new and fancy kind of dish rag on TV.  

 

“Miles Morales. Mmmm,” Peter muses, eventually, tapping the glass against his bottom teeth with a clink. “Why’s your alliteration so much more … better than mine?”

 

“How do you still know how to say ‘alliteration’ when you’re too smashed to talk? That’s kinda messed up.”

 

“Pssht. Sure.” Peter rolls heavily onto his side. “Y’ know what’s _real_ messed up?”

 

“Hm?” Miles hums, looking vacantly back at the commercial, trying not to cringe, Peter’s drunkenness making this conversation go south at a pace that’s loose and fast. Could be any number of things, but they both already know most of them. Unfortunately, Google kinda has a gap in coverage when it comes longevity estimates of slow, particle accelerator induced interdimensional disintegration.

 

Somebody should get on that. Or maybe they shouldn’t.

 

“Actually, nevermind. Stupid,” Peter finally says, like his brain has just caught up to the fact that this is just going to make everything _worse_ , bracing an arm across his eyes. “Wanna talk ‘bout somethin’ else?”

 

 _“Yes.”_ Anything else.

 

A moment of silence filled by the chatter of the television. Miles can practically hear the gears sluggishly turning in Peter’s head, feel the immense heat of his body beside him. He starts to think that he should’ve just stayed in the dorms and caught up on that physics project he had due last week.

 

“Any, uh, new girl…stuff? Y’ got anything, like, happening?”

 

 _Woah_. This is not what they usually talk about. Not since Gwen.

 

There’s a beat. Then two.

 

“No…?” he tries, finally.

 

Peter peeks out from beneath his arm, sees Miles squirming uncomfortably, and, apparently taking this as some kind of sign, blurts:

 

“Boy stuff?”

 

_WOAH._

 

“Oh, wow--I don’t—“ Miles flounders, hands flying up, bewildered. “I don't like dudes, dude.” _Or, at least, the jury’s out on that one for now._

 

“I mean, not that it’s bad if _you_ like them,” he tacks on when he sees Peter regarding him from beneath heavy eyelids. Peter just shrugs.

 

“I, ah, go either way,” he mutters, searching hard for words. “Never hurt anyone t’ mess around a little. Don’t tell MJ.” He tries to give Miles a wink but it’s mostly just a blink, and then he’s trying to take a swig out of the empty bottle again.

 

And if _that_ isn’t a curveball, hitting some kind of sweetspot in Mile’s brain and sailing clean into unknown outfields. Suddenly, he wonders exactly what Peter B. Parker has done with guys. Suddenly, he wants to _ask_ , never mind the sadness braided into the truth that Peter’s never gonna see his MJ again, anyways _._ His mouth shoots off before he can stop it, saying a silent prayer afterwards that his mentor is drunk enough to leave this conversation with hangover and no actual memories tomorrow morning.

 

“How’d you figure out you, you know? Liked guys?”

 

Smartass need-to-know brain. _Nice._

 

Peter’s head lolls backwards like he’s lost all control of his neck and he laughs at the ceiling.

 

“ _Like_ guys, guy. Captain of my high school baseball team. ‘S exactly as bad as it sounds.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“Don’t give me that fuckin’ face. Clark had a real good, uh, butt. ”

 

Miles isn’t sure what to get riled about first. The easy out wins.

 

“You’re not even looking at me!”

 

All at once, Peter _is_ looking at him again, locked in, simultaneously glazed over and too intense, and Miles finds that he can’t look away right back. The radiated halos of their shared power, tingling, tangling. He can practically see the way they knit together.

 

“You really never…” Peter flaps a hand, which might be drunk for ‘wanted to fuck a dude,’ which, maybe? He doesn’t know? Miles honestly hasn’t had the time to test the mettle of that thought, recently, kinda too busy with his side gig of saving Brooklyn from going full meltdown even few seconds.

 

Before he can come up with some kind of answer, lie, Peter does that special Technicolor shiver. An inter-dimensional seizure; a small one. It rolls lime green and cyan and five other unnamable colors through his body, licks up his sides, shaking and shaking him. The bottle tumbles from his chattering hands, and Mile’s reflexes are too fast not to lean close and catch it before it smashes to pieces on the ground.

 

He sets it aside gently on the coffee table, only figuring out the position this leaves him in a few seconds too late. He’s practically across Peter’s lap, now, shot through the vee of his stupid manspread-wide legs. He can smell the alcohol being sweat out through his skin.

 

_Oh, shit._

 

“You good?” Miles tries, the chest beneath him feeling decidedly, frighteningly solid. Peter is not dead, yet; he has not dissolved. There isn’t enough space between them in the world. A hand’s grabbing his chin, tilting it upwards.

 

Peter kisses without preamble.

 

Mouth not quite lined up right, hitting off-center of things in its purest sentiment, big and soft and prickly with stubble. He tastes like hops and badly brushed teeth. An arm wraps firmly around Miles’ waist, and he feels like his body is being subducted beneath the heavy mantle of Peter’s attention, so utterly absorbed that he’s been caught with his eyes wide open, watching. The world is just the blur of this Peter, the not-blonde, not good enough one with a five-o-clock shadow.

 

There had been one girl he’d kissed in elementary school on a dare. The back-pocket ready excuse of a first kiss, one that he’s already long grown too old to really feasibly use. Fall briskness, playground barkchips. Kid stuff. The feeling of her against him, small, squeaking when he had cupped the curve of her Beats to pull her in and plant one on her—consider that nuked.

 

This is Mile’s first kiss. A grown one.

 

Peter sighs heavy into his mouth and the arm around his waist jogs him up a little, squeezing him, getting him exactly where he needs to be. Peter’s body is soft and hard in equal turns. The pressure causes him to open his mouth, obedient, and there’s a tongue in there, thick and kind of claggy-gross, but surprisingly dexterous. Would make sense somehow, if Miles actually had space to _think_.

 

He shivers instead, arms trapped beneath him, hands clutched to claws in the fagged out cotton of Peter’s top. Looking for purchase the same way he does on the sides of slick-glassed skyscrapers, but finding none, left scrambling. He finds himself trying to kiss back, a habit formed from already having picked up so much from Peter already. Things like how release your anxiety sticky fingers from your homework. How to arch your body into flight, and on that note, the physical rhythm to hit when you have to slingshot yourself fifty vertical feet in the air and disarm three bad guys on the way down. How to hold a decent conversation while standing cockeye sideways on a building. Where the best, most remote outcroppings in New York are to sit on and brood.

 

Peter licks the inside of his mouth, pressing too hard against Miles’ wobbly tongue, and there’s definitely a kind of grace to this, too. Somewhere, under all the alcohol, Peter might actually be good at this. But right now it just feels like dumb meets dumber, clumsy drunk and hapless newbie. Spit-gush everywhere.

 

Kicks, kissing. A specifically Brooklyn-bred kind of movement. In another version of their city, a secret one, Miles imagines them kissing like this and trading biting quips between. Biting and backtalk, smiling into each other’s mouths; kid-crush nurtured to full bloom, tangled together in a healthy, sweaty pile after saving the universe again. Shoving French fries into the mouth of a normal Peter, one who’s no longer a shadow he has to lie to his parents to visit. All good and good and good, refracted, impossible peach-pink tinted sunset forever.

 

Miles feels Peter’s legs come up to wrap around his thighs, crudely boxing him in. A hand slides up the curve of his neck into his curly hair.

They kiss until they’re breathless; until Miles is literally gasping, straining to pull away against Peter’s waning super strength, sure he’s going to suffocate. Somewhere in all of it he’s started to rut against Peter’s leg, and he only manages to stop himself once he’s begun to pull away.

 

_“Mmph!”_

 

They part with a smack of spit, just audible over their shared breathing, which is more like panting. The sound is somehow ten times lewder than anything he’s ever heard in his life.

 

His head drops heavily on Peter’s chest, eyes squeezed shut. Hips still moving, just a little. A man with a balaclava and a homemade flamethrower strapped to his back tried to kill him on a fire escape last week and failed. But kissing—kissing might.

 

“Holy shit,” he whispers, just to himself, listening to the heartbeat beneath his ear. It sounds good. He wonders if all Spider-people’s bodies are synched up on some biological level. He wonders if all first kisses are like this.

 

When he can finally lift his head again, he’s unable to meet Peter’s eyes—all that same ringing embarrassment beating high in his pulse, that newscramble feeling of trying to be perfectly invisible and feeling watched instead. His eyes slide south to see how Peter’s mouth is fat, flushed. He tries to raise his hand to touch his own lips, see if they’ve been bruised swollen, too, and discovers it’s stuck to Peter’s broad shoulder in a way that’s sort of funny but mostly embarrassing. He hasn’t done this on accident in weeks.

 

“Oops.”

 

Peter laughs, then lays his own hand overtop of the one stuck to him, like it’s trying to bind their bodies to each other.

 

“Relax,” he commands, a tired inside-joke. A laughable callback to what they were, before this.

 

 _“I know_ ,” Miles says, but he’s too dizzy for there to be any real petulance in it. Maybe he’s drunk, too. Is that possible? Drunk by proxy?

 

Peter sits up a little, shifting them, and starts rubbing big circles across his back, still holding him tightly. A weirdly platonic hug-thing, considering that Miles is still hard and he can feel a hot pressure against his leg that suggests that Peter is, too. If anything, he feels more stuck, close and trying to get closer.

 

“Shh, baby,” Peter breathes, mouth right there, next to his ear.

 

Oh, fuck. _Oh fuck oh fuck._ He can’t call him baby like that, like he’s a girl. Miles breath goes quick and he starts to sweat, nervous system too shot to hang with any of this. Peter just keeps mumbling wordlessly, some sort of fucked hybrid of father-brother-lover, something, smothering, too hot. A faint suggestion of that other universe again, yet untapped: Peter, permanent, rightly placed and oriented in the space he needs to occupy, embracing Miles sweetly.

 

The breath on his face is sour.

 

He’s being pressed back, a tip in his center of gravity, palm still doggedly sealed in place as Peter comes with him. Over top of him now, body stretched big over his little one against the couch cushions. Peter collapses down onto both elbows with a groan, chin nearly bouncing off Mile’s sternum. A big, hot hand swipes over the warm bulge in his shorts, and he instinctively bucks up to chase it, just that one touch feeling hundreds of times better than his usual tissue-lotion-hand trifecta, only recently having honed that to decency.

 

“Relax, Miles.”

 

Heavy words, low with potential, powerful enough to skewer him to the crummy couch cushions. Peter spreads his legs, and he doesn’t say _yes_ but he doesn’t say _no,_ either. Apparently that’s good enough. He’s wearing basketball shorts and leggings beneath to keep out the early springtime cold, no buttons to dawdle on and fumble with: Peter yanks them down in one fell swoop and then Miles is splayed out on the couch in another Spider Man’s apartment in nothing but his underwear.

 

Somehow, he resists the overwhelming urge to get invisible. He deserves a medal.

 

He’s already got a pretty good chub going against all rational intention, tenting his boxers, and when Peter paws at it again clumsily with one of his long-fingered hands, Miles yelps. He watches as Peter buries his face into the crook of his thigh. Inhales like he’s drowning, mouth hot and wet and open to the cotton of his underwear, just to the slip-side of where it needs to be. Looks up from down below. His eyes are very brown; heavy lidded, as if drunk and now drunker off his scent, the same tongue that kissed Miles to oblivion testing the slit of his boxers, pink and shy.

 

Miles, smartboy Miles, realizes very succinctly in this moment that there is no leap of faith to take, here, no building edge to toe at or jump to brave, because they’re already here. Wading, together, through the thick of it. Neck deep in grief, thirst, whatever.

 

This is so fucked.

 

“Y’ever…?” Peter’s gaze flashes down to the bulge in Mile’s shorts, back up.

 

“Uh, n-no,” Miles gasps, realizing that Peter is about to suck his dick.

 

Guys in his class have joked about it, getting blowies, getting head. Talked trash about it like some kind of simultaneously holy and entirely throw-awayable act, in theory. In practice, Peter is at least a half a foot taller than him and his limbs are twice as thick. He has a beard while Miles dreams it, little soft whisps of hair starting to come in under his arms and at the base of his dick. Peter is going silver in places and Miles is worried—that he isn’t grown enough. Nerdy, not-cool, mama’s boy Miles who always raises his hand first in class and whose skin still itches under the starched collar of his private school uniform. Who's never ever had his dick sucked, or even been kissed; now his boxers are coming off, shimmied down his hips. His cock pops out, hard, leaking, but weirdly small-looking compared to how big Peter’s everything is.

 

“S’ okay,” Peter says softly, to himself, eyes glued to his Miles’ junk like his cock is actually something worth looking at, something to _behold_. Rough cheek comes down to press against to babysoft upper thigh. “S’ okay cause I’m gonna make you feel good.”

 

Mile’s hand is still glued to Peter’s shoulder, _nice_ , and somewhere in the back of his mind he’s is bolt-struck by the compulsion to croon _Hey_. Real smooth. _How do I hit on a dude more than twice my age, Uncle Aaron? Any reliable moves_? Then there’s a mouth on his dick and thought of any kind is no longer possible.

 

It’s so much. Just tongue at first, wide, wet laps from root to tip that make Miles squirm and bite at his crooked knuckles, warming him up. _Holy fuck._ It only takes a little bit of this for Peter starts sucking for real, moving the hot, tight ring of his lips down, tongue coxing Miles up and up until the head of his dick bumps something: the back of Peter’s throat. He doesn’t seem to have much of a gag reflex and that should be freaky but it’s mostly just blisteringly hot.

 

Peter blows him like somebody who’s definitely sucked dick before, sloppy but good. At least Miles thinks this is true. No point of comparison to be sure, just the way dark Peter glances back up at him when Miles tries to swipe aside the piece of brown hair that’s fallen over his face with trembling fingers.

 

“Fuck,” Miles whispers, and then Peter takes him to the root and he sees God.

 

He tries not to lock his thighs around Peter’s head, grabs his free hand into his hair to get him close, closer, and fails. Random filthy porno lines skitter through his brain, dumb shit he’s half heard online or maybe made up, straight from the absolute disgusting depths of his horny teenage subconscious. _Suck it. Pull you down on that dick. M’ gonna fuck your face._ Gross shit he’d never dare utter to anyone, let alone Peter Parker, who had looked at a new and shaking Miles, fresh with triumph, and laughed _I love you_. Miles humps up into the scorching wetness at the memory. Empty bottles crash and skitter to the ground. He isn’t sure if he’s just thinking the bad things or saying them out loud, anymore; doesn’t matter.

 

Peter hums around his cock so that Miles can feel the warm vibration of it _everywhere_. He opens his eyes, and sees that Peter’s hand has delved into his same-old sweats, moving rapidly. The head of his cock winks in and out of the movement of his fist, tugging at himself fast, faster.

 

He’s touching himself to this.

 

“Ohmygod,” Miles blurts, toes curling, mouth falling slack. He’s swan dived from skyscrapers, hurtled through turns with enough G-force to kill a man, grazed his backbone on the dashed white street markings down the middle of fifth avenue. Ridden venom-boosted adrenaline highs strong enough to kill a lesser kid.

 

None of it holds a candle to this.

 

Getting his dick sucked by Peter just feels that stupid good.

 

 

“M’ gonna--- _Peter--!”_

 

Miles comes. And comes. Bliss shooting through him, orgasms from jacking off feeling like some badly faded memory, until he’s wrung dry and shivering. The skin beneath Mile’s hand feels hot, and he realizes, distantly, that it slipped unstuck long ago and he’s just been clinging onto Peter’s shoulder with a death grip all by his own damn self. It takes him a second to figure out how to let go, watching it detach as if it belongs to someone else, palm still tingling.

 

Every part of his body feels oversensitive, feverish, and Peter still hasn’t stopped desperately sucking him. Almost gets a knee to the side of the head for his trouble.

 

“Stop!” Miles yelps. Maybe it’s more of a whimper.

 

Finally, Peter does, wet cock slipping out of his mouth and onto his bare belly with another nasty _thwap_. Miles can literally hear the lewd squelch of how hard he’s jerking himself, see the rhythmic movement of his arm. He’s so dizzy he can hardly focus on anything but how rough the couch feels against his bare ass, the smell of sweat and cum, the sizzle where their skin is pressed together. His knees fall open and Peter rises up between them to reveal the way he’s stripping his cock in earnest, leaning against the back of the couch for support.

 

His hips are so much wider. His cock is so much bigger, swollen and red, leaning crooked to the side like the rest of him.

 

“Miles,” Peter moans, looking exhausted beyond measure. It’s an utterly broken sound, his only split-second of warning. Then boiling hot come is hitting his stomach, getting all over his shirt, wet and intense and freezing him in place. There’s so much of it. Miles feels his mouth drop open: he’s watching Spider-man cum. He _made_ Spider-man come, sort of. Peter slumps over before the final trickle, a dark wave, crashing on top of him in a full-body flop that makes Miles squeak.

 

He lets him lay there for a second, even though he must weigh one thousand pounds, twice than when soaked through with beer. The crook of his neck is pressed right against Mile’s nose and he smells good. Like hugs and reassurance, guidance, okay-ness. The feeling of his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths feels good, too, twinned together as they try to catch their breath, even though it gets old quick.

 

“Can’t breathe,” Miles gasps.

 

Peter rolls off him, curling up on his end of the couch. Miles sits up and rubs at his eyes, trying to get his shit in some sort of order. The apartment suddenly seems much bigger and colder without a huge, hot body on top of him, and he shivers excitedly. Some part of his heart feels like he’s grown at least three inches taller, gained muscle in his chest. That his voice would be deeper if he spoke. The come on his stomach has cooled into a stick, gnarly puddle, and he’s trying to rub it off with the sleeve of his sweatshirt when Peter mumbles something.

 

“Huh?” Miles asks, chin jerking up. Peter is still curled up into a sorry-looking little ball, face hidden in the arm of the couch. Just a slash of a mouth to be seen, an ill-shaven chin.

 

“You need to—get out of here.”

 

Oh. Shit. Miles knows this voice: the one right before full-meltdown, the ‘Oh my god I’m never gonna fix it with MJ’ obsessive hysteria he’s seen poke out once or twice over the course of their knowing each other. A terrifying, blanket displeasure, so-good plunged down to so-bad quick enough to sting.

 

“Dude, Peter, don’t—“  

 

“Get out.”

 

“—you can’t make it weird, man—“ He’s begging now, desperate. Peter’s unhappy, something is wrong. The back seat of the squad car, Dad in the front: he’s in trouble. All at once he feels like he still has two hundred pounds worth of warm human body crushing the air from his chest, and he’s sort of sure he’s gonna pass out for a second.

 

“Get _OUT.”_

The light of the TV glints off the bared grill of Peter’s teeth, grimace gone blue.

 

Miles jumps back, hair standing on end, spider senses tingling painfully. They both sit there in silence for a second, Peter unmoving and Miles feeling exactly thirteen years old, cowering in front of a displeased adult. Come dried around his belly button. Cock still warm and snug in his underwear from being sucked.

 

 

“You’re making it fucking weird,” he whispers, finally, finding his leggings and shorts on the floor, swaying as he pulls them on. Trying to crawl from deep down in the pit of this thing, the dark pocket where Peter’s still hiding. His shorts are probably backwards. He doesn’t care. He moves through his exit ritual like a dream, swinging his backpack over his shoulder as he heads for the window.

 

 

“You started it,” he spits once he’s reached it, standing at a safe distance from the sad, broke-backed couch, and the words taste bitter. Stupid. He’s gonna take the hottest shower he can possible stand when he gets home, scrub the feeling of Peter’s mouth off his dick; his skin isn’t fitting right. The window frame burns cold against his fingers as his lifts it, silent as always, not even making a satisfying crash to signal his exit.

 

Peter says nothing, TV just flickering the late night news. 

**Author's Note:**

> to save the AO3 staff some work: this fic will not be taken down if reported for underage content 
> 
> that being said, nice comments are much loved ty for reading!!! we need more of this pairing out here


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